


l'aura

by t_scrittore



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!, Reborn!
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-07
Updated: 2010-04-07
Packaged: 2017-12-10 09:20:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/784424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/t_scrittore/pseuds/t_scrittore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A chase; "It looks like I just caught the wind."</p>
            </blockquote>





	l'aura

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Kateikoushi Hitman Reborn! belongs to Akira Amano and was serialized in SHUEISHA Shounen Jump.
> 
> Written for Round 3 of the KHRFEST @ lj and transferred from my old account.
> 
> Sort of dark, and sort of fluffy, with implications of sex. It's also written in the first person, from the perspective of a bystander.

You whisper poetry to his ears, the husk of your low baritone tempting him to sleep, _Now the waves murmur, and the boughs and shrubs tremble in the morning breeze,_ but he resists it like every other time, and he pulls away from your embrace. It does not faze you, and you merely lie back and watch him, watch that black hair curl around his shoulders, the long tresses cascading like a waterfall down his back in gentle waves. You meet his even blacker gaze, nonchalant and clear and beautiful like onyx stones. You smirk, he does not smile, you reach out your hand, and he does not take it.

" _ **I am not a toy for you to play with.**_ " The ripples of his movements seem to tell you, each gesture fluid and sensual, belying some sort of feline grace as he slinks away from that arm you have around his small waist. He pulls away only because you let him, and you keep holding him only because he allows it. _And on the green branches, the pleasant birds sing, and then the east smiles._

It's a dangerous game, the two of you play; a strange literary piece where there are two authors, where verses are exchanged, and strophes are never made. You make up the words as you go along, your warm fingertips ghosting over his white skin just before the rustle of silk sensually caresses bare skin and covers it. A shame, you click your tongue, even as you keep murmuring. The poem isn't finished yet. _Now dawn already appears and mirrors herself on the sea, and make the skies serene,_ And your pauses promise something only as sweet and gentle as the kiss of your lips to the back of his neck, and it is ever so cruel.

You see it with dark eyes, and feel it with flesh upon flesh: the shudder of baited breath, the parting of those swollen lips and the tremors wracking his delicate frame. You know it displeases him, this unwanted effect you have on him, and that is the only reason why you keep doing it. _And the gentle frost impearls the fields and gilds the high mountains:_ Your words are innocent, and this he knows very well. You can taste it on his skin when you finally pull him back to lie against you, his hair a midnight curtain and his pliant form the soft breezes prior to the harsh gales before the violent whirlwind.

He is silent, like the calm before the storm, always the calm yet perpetually the storm. You think he is beautiful, and you know he knows you think so as much as he knows you know how much he hates those loving words from your mouth, the affection seeping unto your tone like the poison on a serpent's tongue. You do not tell him you love him, because that is the only false lie you will never say, and when you kiss, the touch of lips against lips is bittersweet. _O gracious and beautiful Aurora,_ He fits perfectly in your embrace, and he is fully aware of this, revels in this just for a moment because though your possessive arms are the bars of a birdcage, they have the same warmth as a fire burning on a furnace. That ruthlessly selfish love of yours, it burns him, yet it is his hands which grasp at you; it is he who deepens the kiss, and it is you who pulls away. _The breeze is your messenger,_

You smirk at him, and he does not smile. You cup his cheek with your hand, and he does not pull away. He stares down at you, leans so close to you that he is the only one you see, and when he speaks, his murmurs are even softer than the wind's words. " ** _Reborn_** ," is what he whispers, despite what his eyes want to say.

 **I'm not yours** , they tell you unflinchingly, even as he takes hold of your hand and cradles it preciously in both of his own. He places kisses on your knuckles, on each calloused finger and **I'm not yours** , his eyes tell you again even when he murmurs your name so lovingly, so adoringly. You can only smirk.

You smirk, and you gather him close and hold him even closer, ignoring the departure of the night and the coming of the morning, **I'm not yours** , and you prove those dark eyes wrong again and again. _and you the breeze's which revives every burnt-out heart._

**Author's Note:**

> The poem Reborn recites was written by a Torquato Tasso, for a girl named Laura Peperara. Message aside, what is really clear in this work is the imagery and the play on the name "Laura" with the Italian word, "l'aura", which means "breezes". The character for Fon's name is "wind".


End file.
